


The Matrix Legislature

by Anonymous



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Matrix of Leadership (Transformers), Minor Injuries, Non-Consensual Body Modification, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23378635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Did you hear about what the Senators are doing to the bodies of mechs that speak out?
Relationships: Orion Pax/Shockwave
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35
Collections: Anonymous





	The Matrix Legislature

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been three years since I’ve written and orphaned my works for this fandom, and yet, I remember most of Transformers' bodily anatomy. That being said, you might find a few blips. Feel free to let me know how I could improve, if you’d like!
> 
> Anyway, it’s great to be back!  
> Disclaimer, I love Shockwave and his kindly ways. This is just a tiny character study around a plot point that wasn’t given too much attention.

There are probably easier ways to drive your spark to exhaustion than being a member of the Senate.

A long time ago, he would have the energy to raise an objection to each point they were making. At the risk of looking foolish, he would play the devil’s advocate and talk until his glossa went numb. 

He’s since learned the futility of it all. Whether he’s present or not, most of the proceedings reach the same result. It’s getting to the point where he’s so run down with the weight of what he’s tried to achieve, and the many failures that follow suit, that he’s become the very thing he’s hated: he currently sits in an assembly of conspirators and complicitors and feels nothing at all. Apathetic.

Proteus and Ratbat can see the wear and tear beneath Shockwave’s many coats of paint and it turns them murderous. Their little “alliance” comes at his expense, and it’s a common sight to have them both team up on his suggestions until he feels embarrassment prick from under his plating. None of the other Senators have the spark to help him out either. Each session is, in one way or another, a slaughter.

He thought that having Zeta in his possession would alleviate some of his anxiety. Call it second thoughts, a reconsideration of his approach, dread for what’s to come, whatever--but instead of reassuring him, it achieves the opposite. Trust issues are already so common to come by, what with the sky spies the Senate has almost unanimously agreed on. What’s one more problem for him to deal with?

The voices of the other Senators weave in and out of his audio receptors; a white noise that doesn’t register as anything more than babble. His consultation is rare, so he can afford to drone them out. That is, until the background noise grows to a thunder. He hears the sound pick up just as the faceplates of the mechs around him disfigure. Their optics squint, backstruts stretched to give them their good posture. 

He can’t ignore it then. The room is shrouded in anticipation, as if they all know it’s an inevitability that they’re about to set a collision course with whatever just got past Sentinel.

He did hear the vague message from their head of security over his comm. link, which is as good as warnings go before the scene erupts into chaos. Their visitor, blue and red, has more forward momentum than he knows what to do with. With a light blue mech slung over his shoulder, it looks as though they’re about to enter some form of hostage negotiation.

Their visitor looks worse for wear. He’s leaking energon from the numerous cuts and dents in his plating. His flaking paint leads a trail from the entrance out, where the guards have formed a neat semi-circle to trap him inside of. Probably the most evident of his injuries would be the hole where his face mask should be sealed.

Shockwave’s curious as to why the mech hasn’t been _blasted_ yet. Not that it’s the outcome he wants, it’s just that Sentinel and Proteus have such a loose trigger digit these days. He’d think that they’d shoot first and ask questions later, in the name of taking precautions. Come to think of it, though he looks bigger than Shockwave, the mech is not comparative to the likes of Sentinel. How did he get so far? By _fighting?_

He misses the first half of the introduction, only focusing around the “--I want a word with you” point.

Shockwave leans forward in his seat, captivated, as the visitor throws the mech over his shoulder to the ground. The frame is unrecognized to him, but he sees a few of his fellow Senators perk up at the head replacement. Another victim of their handiwork; another member of their practice. He’s too far away to see the empurta victim’s twitching, but the light from the electrical sparking is clear to the optic.

The visitor turns back to them. “I want you to look at him and realize that even the smallest actions have consequences.”

This mech has some experience in public speaking, that much is certain. It’s a rallying cry--a call to war. Something you would see televised. It’s the words of a leader, now a self-proclaimed Autobot.

In comes anecdotal evidence from the visitor, pushing the Senators into dysfunction as they all fight to be heard over him. The situation is quickly escalating out of anyone’s control. The all-powerful Senate can’t take the room back. Instead of one voice, it's the sound of many incompatible ideas crashing into each other. Sympathizers, antagonizers, they’re all in the melting pot.

Shockwave sees him, and there’s no question of if he’s useful; it’s simply a declaration. Shockwave is only thinking in shapes: wanting to reconfigure the mech’s chassis and develop him into something useful. The amalgamation of the way he speaks and what he’s saying stirs something inside of him that’s laid dormant for a long time. 

He feels the visitor’s optics look up to where he’s seated and does everything in his arsenal to stop his internal fans from turning on. Even though he knows he’s being grouped in with the liars and thieves and murderers, there’s an element of intimacy there too. It gives him another gaze to think about, one that doesn’t belong to Proteus, who crucifies him with heat.

It’s his impulsive talking, but that’s just in character for him at this point. And oh, he’d be lying if he said it’s been a long time since his last pet project, but opportunities like this aren’t an everyday occurrence; to not take advantage of it would make him a fool.

As soon as they suspend the session--after their visitor is put under arrest and dragged out--he’s up on his pedes. He moves fast enough to ensure that no one will stop him for conservation. He makes no eye-contact; he opts to use the stairs so that he doesn’t have to wait for the elevator, all in the hopes of shaving off those few clicks so he can find him on time.

He catches up to Sentinel and his guards just outside the building’s back entrance. By then, the visitor is unconscious and bleeding profusely. A purple skid follows him out the door, glimmering in the low light. Out in public, of course. Why not scare the masses a bit more?

“Sentinel!” he calls out, projecting his voice louder than necessary.

He quickens his pace to a jog until he’s by Sentinel’s side. His inner plating feels grimy upon seeing the way Sentinel looks at the mech in his custody. 

“What.”

Shockwave tries to salvage the situation by holding his composure close to himself. “I need you to give him to me.”

“ _You?_ For what purpose?”

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

“It is, actually. What are you doing with your little collection of strays and outcasts? Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

The disdain that Sentinel loads his words with makes Shockwave’s armour prick. He flexes his fins, trying to keep the protective urge to defend his students from showing on his faceplates. Shockwave’s got a reputation for theatrics, and so long as Sentinel is on Proteus’ payroll he’s under no obligation to listen to him. It’s an uncomfortable position to be in. 

Shockwave extends an arm, his servo open. “It’s not on you to pass judgement. Hand him over.”

“Senator Proteus said--”

“ _Proteus_ is not here. I won’t ask again.”

“But on whose authority?”

“My own, obviously. What, after such a long time of kissing his pedes you’ve forgotten that the rest of us possess the same level of influence?”

Sentinel’s fury scalds him. Shockwave is surprised that he can say, “that’s disputable,” with a straight face.

Shockwave continues: “You may have power, but not over me. This doesn’t fall under your jurisdiction; don’t delude yourself into thinking it does.”

“I’ll be informing the rest of the Senate about this,” he says. Like a petulant sparkling. 

“And you’re free to do so.” Though he hopes Sentinel won’t. This might be the blow that breaks the bough. “Now, at the risk of sounding shrewd, _give him to me._ You’re making this a lot harder than it needs to be.”

Thank Primus, something gets through his thick cranial. The mech is dropped, unceremoniously, at his pedes. Without a goodbye, Sentinel stalks back in the direction of the Senate.

He’d be stupid to think this argument would be the end of it. Someone is going to raise hell over it. _You’re supposed to be the example_ , they’ll say. _How can anyone trust we’ll punish them for lawbreaking if you save every wayward spark that we come across? All of them, they’ll know they need to kneel for you. They can do anything and be saved by the_ merciful _Senator Shockwave._

It is true that he’s become a bit of a redeemer, but accounts of his mercy only come from his successes. A body count stacked higher than the city’s skyscrapers--those he couldn’t save--continues to climb. He’s been very good recently; at least, according to the Senate’s definition of good. This? Well, this is a compromise.

He shakes his helm and looks down at the mech. The large dents are the least of his problems. He took a few bad blows to the chassis that are pushing his chest protectors into his vital functions. Sentinel had been anything but merciful to him during transport, but it pales in comparison to the treatment he’d be receiving at the Institute right now. Shockwave can barely stomach the thought of them hollowing him out. He’s perfect as he is; a sophisticated kind of beauty that he wants to wear and emulate.

As he waits for the bots he’s comm’d to help escort him, he tries to comfort the mech. He presses down on the active wounds and rearranges his frame to lie in a more comfortable position, all while taking an inventory of what needs fixing and where he’d like to make subtle adjustments. His digits trace patterns and upgrades into places that lie flat. Thankfully, it doesn’t look like much work needs to be done: he’s already a sturdy build. It might have just saved him from being beaten offline just now.

His reinforcements come running, not too long after. They see the heap of metal and Shockwave standing over it, protective of his find. 

He removes his servos from the mech, now stained purple, and resets his voice box.

“Take him in for repairs,” is all he says. An unassuming bystander won’t think twice about the demand. They might feel sympathy for this poor figure as he’s dragged away. They might even assume the worst.

Shockwave takes one arm. The few clean slices have cauterized themselves but the other, more jagged openings weep energon. The small whirring of the mech’s internal fans is one of the only indicators that he’s with them, and with all the commotion they’re easy to miss.

Each mech takes an arm and leg, heaving him up onto the medical berth that’s been called in. He’s heavy, as evidenced by one of his helpers stumbling when they try to rotate him.

“Careful,” Shockwave grunts. Now’s not the time to be reopening wounds. The overseeing medic agrees with a roar of his alt-mode’s engine.

Just as the doors close on him, Shockwave takes one last look and commits it to his memory banks. He’ll be seeing him again--very soon actually, when it’s time to operate--but right now this mech is just a civilian. A freedom-fighter. He doesn’t know what he’s capable of achieving. He’s not tarnished by any political connections. He’s not meant to _be_ anything. He’s malleable. 

The mech is already deep enough in stasis lock to mimic a coma diagnosis, the medic tells him. He might stir while they’re operating, but he won’t register any pain with the added injections. 

“Or at least, he won’t remember it,” the medic says. “If he sees us, or you, it won’t matter. He won’t come seek you out until you’re ready.” He pauses. “I just don’t want to put him under any unnecessary stress in his condition. The odds of a rejection are still rather significant.”

It’s a kind suggestion from the mech that’s qualified to be giving him their expert opinion. Yet:

“I’d prefer we don’t go up against the odds that he wakes up mid-operation and causes unnecessary panic, for both your safety and his.” Shockwave looks at the immobile frame. “He’s strong. Even induced, I doubt you’ll encounter any complications.”

The datapads they bring up tell Shockwave his name and serial number: Orion Pax. He’s sure he heard that name somewhere before. It bounces around in his helm, sticking to his processor like a bonding solution. But he can’t place it. Records will give him names, locations, and a biography with enough bullet points to probably lead him in the right direction, but he’d be lying if he said he cared. He knows enough for it to matter and that alone makes him sure.

There’s a thin strip of sheet curtains separating the operating slab from his seat. The diaphanous material shows him the skeleton crew at work. They’re operating on borrowed time and the knowledge that if they’re caught, the Institute will be their sentence. 

He hears the sizzling noise as the laser scalpel burns away the protective casing. Orion, not there by choice, is shackled down. One of those “precautions.”

Shockwave gets a look at the modification they’re going to insert, beside the operating slab and just disinfected. He wonders how it feels. Rough diagnostics give him the idea, but they can’t simulate its emotional impact. Does it make you feel powerful? Empty? It’s something he will carry for life. A piece of Shockwave that he can’t gouge out.

He has them reinforce Orion’s armour-plating, paying for all the necessary improvements and then some. It’s there to make up for the gaping hole by his spark chamber that will make him walk lopsided for a bit as he adjusts to the new weight distribution. The medics might have to tweak his equilibrium chip before they deposit him back at the station, he makes note.

Shockwave curls his servos into a fist and tests the armour, fresh out of surgery. The metal makes a satisfying _clang_ when he taps on it. It will do, for now. There to protect him when Shockwave can’t.

Satisfied, he lets one servo creep down the side. He curls his digits into the circuitry beneath Orion’s arm until he finds the latch he’s looking for. Orion’s chassis splits, revealing his spark chamber and the new, shiny Matrix casing. Interestingly, the spark doesn’t retreat inward when the protective armour peels away. Shockwave holds out a single digit and lets the electricity swivel around it. It wants to be near him, and that gives him hope.

Does this maybe Prime-to-be want his new designation? Well, he supposes it doesn’t matter now. It’s no longer up to him. Orion made himself a candidate; no audition necessary, just enough time to leave a good first impression. 

Not all of his subjects show the same level of gratitude. They won’t all be Zeta. There’s a chance Orion might hate him after this. However, Shockwave was careful with the selection process. He wouldn’t pick out a mech if he wasn’t absolutely sure they would handle the responsibility. Sure, Orion might...have difficulty processing this new information. Shockwave wouldn’t blame him. But Orion can’t hate him-- _won’t_ hate him. If it takes a few cubes of energon and some time spent together to assure that becomes a reality, then Shockwave is more than happy to take up the challenge. 

There are worse things out there than to be spending time in the company of a mech who commands the room he’s present in. When he shuts his optics down, he sees them there together. The Senate is burning but he’s intact. The Clampdown has passed, the skies are clear, and he overlooks a peaceful Cybertron beside its newest Prime. The one he found, treated, conditioned, and released.

Orion’s not the first to be befriended and he may not be the last. Shockwave is no longer disturbed by the cavity in the chests of these mechs which act as mere vessels for a brighter future. It’s become necessary. As much as he tells himself he won’t get attached, these mechs do end up becoming his brightest hope. If he didn’t operate on them, they might not stay here and realize the sum of what they could accomplish.

Does it make Shockwave anything like the Institute? To be here, configuring a body that’s not his, scraping out a hole for him to implant a foreign entity for his purposes? It puts an irreversible target on his back. The Senate will consider him Shockwave’s handiwork. Forever.

No, he shakes his helm. Orion will understand. It’s a fair price to pay for reactivation. He will understand--Shockwave will _make_ him understand--the gravity of the situation.

At his berthside, Shockwave lays a servo over the chassis of his newest weapon. This one, he thinks, will belong to him. He will be his legacy.


End file.
